


Never Clean

by hunenka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s09e08 Rock and a Hard Place, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 19:19:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunenka/pseuds/hunenka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if your sins are too many to ever be forgiven?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Clean

The darkness and silence that have become Crowley’s home are first broken by the sounds of approaching footsteps; solid thuds of heavy boots on concrete that would indicate one of the Winchesters, but the pace somewhat dragging, hesitant, which would indicate Kevin.

The lights come on then, blinding Crowley momentarily and when he squints to see who his visitor is, the door to his cell is already open and in it stands Dean Winchester with a strange, unpleasantly unreadable expression on his face that makes Crowley’s skin crawl with uncertainty.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Rapunzel herself,” Crowley taunts just to break the silence, just to make Dean replace that cold, blank face with something familiar, be it annoyance, anger or disgust.

But no outward reaction to his words comes. If Dean wasn’t looking him straight in the eyes Crowley would be inclined to think Dean doesn’t even register him.

“What, Hellhound got your tongue?” Crowley tries again and again he is only met with a blank stare. It is most unnerving and it makes him want to shift and squirm in his chair, but he resists the urge. Just barely.

When Dean finally moves, it is to turn his back on Crowley and close the door to the cell.

“Want a little privacy with my humble self?” Crowley waggles his eyebrows at Dean’s back. “I’m flattered.”

Still not responding in any way, Dean walks to the wall where the torture instruments are displayed and lets his eyes roam over them. From the chair that Crowley’s chained to he only gets a good view of the hunter’s profile, but even from this ropy vantage point Crowley can recognize the hunger that appears on Dean’s face. Finally an expression that can be deciphered and used.

“Come here to let off some steam, like little Kevin did earlier?” Frankly, Crowley’s been expecting something like this to happen much sooner, he’s been waiting for it even. Physical pain is something he knows, something he understands, an old friend that he misses dearly now. He’s only got acquainted with its twin of the mental kind recently and he doesn’t like it at all, it’s so more difficult to handle.

Ignoring Crowley’s question, Dean takes a long, slightly curved dagger off the shelf and weighs it in his palm, then grips the handle and examines the blade, runs a fingertip across the edge to test its sharpness.

“Actually, I’ve been looking forward to this,” Crowley says in an attempt to keep the conversation going. “Bet you’ll make it real good, too. I hear Alastair only spoke about you in superlatives, like a father proud of his favorite son.”

“And then I let him down,” Dean’s voice is flat, carefully toneless. He’s still studying the dagger. “Just like I always do. Always fuck it up somehow.”

Crowley frowns, mouth open on a _What?_ that doesn’t come out.

“Too much lying, too many secrets, and now it’s hurting him, just like it hurt Cas,” Dean goes on, unaware of Crowley’s growing confusion. “Always end up hurting them.” He runs his thumb across the dagger’s blade one last time before putting it back in its place and taking a bullwhip off the shelf instead. Again, he lets his eyes and then fingers travel up and down the instrument’s length, his look and touch loving, longing, yearning.

Oh.

Crowley grins triumphantly because now he’s figured it out. “Oh, Squirrel. You didn’t come here to hurt me, did you? You want some of that pain for _yourself_. Want someone to hurt you real bad.”

Dean doesn’t react to that in any way, his face blank, his posture still, unchanging. But the non-reaction is too perfect, telling Crowley that he definitely hit a nerve. “What, you did something wrong, Dean? Feeling guilty because you’ve been a bad boy and now you need to be punished?”

Turning his head, Dean meets Crowley’s eyes with a hard stare that nevertheless confirms Crowley’s suspicion and makes him grin wider. “Don’t get your hopes up,” Dean says dryly, “it’s not like I’m gonna let you do it.”

“Of course not. You’re not _that_ stupid.” Crowley shifts slightly, trying to get into a more comfortable position, and interlaces his fingers together. “But don’t you at least want to hear what I’d have on the menu for you?”

He gets no response to that, Dean is playing with the whip again, fondling it like a long lost lover. No response means a yes though, Crowley can tell, and he’s feeling generous enough to oblige. He's definitely _not_ doing it to prove a point to himself, anyway. “I’d start with a plain old beating, fists and boots, just to get us both warmed up. Give some extra attention to that pretty face.”

Dean’s eyes flutter as if he wants to close them, but he doesn’t, staring right ahead with unseeing eyes, like he’s visualizing the scenario.

“I’d take that lovely whip next since you seem so fond of it,” Crowley continues, ignoring that new, tiny yet tenacious part inside him that whispers _no_ and _wrong_. He even raises his voice a notch to shout it down. “Strip the skin off your back, watch the blood pool around your feet.”

_Blood all around you, so much of it that you could drown in it_ , that irksome, persistent inner voice whispers and Crowley does his best to ignore it. He concentrates on Dean instead, on the hard, tense lines of his body as the man stands still as a statue except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest, listening to Crowley going through all the instruments displayed on the wall, one by one, until there are no more left.

“And then,” Crowley finishes, his harsh, ragged breathing matching Dean’s, “I’d start all over again.” He is fully aware that he should be pleased with himself, but damn it, he’s still not feeling it, so he just fakes the smug smile instead. “Think that would be punishment enough?”

Dean shakes his head curtly and speaks his first words since Crowley started sweet-talking to him. “Too many sins for that. I’ll never be clean.”

Without looking back, Dean walks away, and once again, Crowley is left alone in the company of four walls and his own ghosts that inhabit the space between them, reflecting on what Dean just told him and how it resonates with that small voice inside him.

Crowley doesn’t know what Dean was talking about, what he did to feel so guilty, so impure and unclean. It doesn’t matter though; Crowley doesn’t have to know to be able to understand.

“Never clean,” he agrees, and the darkness around him answers with silence.


End file.
